


Inretio

by maelpereji



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adam's third shot at life, Depression, Michael (mentioned only) - Freeform, Post Season 15, dark and potentially triggering content, hopelessness, it's not going well, mentions death and of a preference for it to life, not strictly Midam in content, please do not click if you have any doubts, rated M for the dark and heavy content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelpereji/pseuds/maelpereji
Summary: Adam wonders how many more vital parts of himself he can stand to lose before he ceases to be a person anymore, but the world itself doesn’t seem to care. It goes on, just as life does, under the gaze of its new God.
Kudos: 4





	Inretio

**Author's Note:**

> Adam's POV, post S15 finale. Carried over from my Tumblr blog, this is highly edited text with bold and italics. Warning - potentially triggering. Adam is not in a happy place in this one. This fic does mention preferring death to life and is pretty dark in tone. Please take care not to pursue any possibly triggering content and click out.

The day comes when Adam can no longer hold onto the memory of his mother’s face, and all at once, every vague, vapid sense of **who** he ever was - _before_ the Cage, _before_ Hell, _before_ he said ‘ _yes_ ’ to the faceless, divine light bearing down upon him from above - becomes a vacuous pit that by some gargantuan measure of torment, is **deeper** than the level of Hell he’s trapped within. 

None of it means anything. Hell does not exist (but it does, because he is there, **screaming** as somebody **laughs** ). _Adam_ does not really exist (but of course he **does,** for how else can he screech out in such elegant **pain?** ). His body and soul is nothing but a patchwork, punctured, cardboard cut-out, forever on _loan_ to an Archangel, and it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ , it-

-is morning. 

_Again_.

The _screaming,_ it turns out,is not his own as his skin crackles and _**burns**_ under the scorch of holy flame, _nor_ is it Michael’s as the Archangel releases unearthly peals of **torment** to a Father that is clearly _deaf_ to the agonies of his child. It is quite simply, the most normal, repetitive sound of all. 

The alarm clock. It’s 7am. 

The _bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep_ should be familiar. It should be a soft, mundane comfort in a world Adam is relearning the taste, touch and imprint of all over again since finding himself - _miraculously_ \- restored to life for the **third** time. (Oh, the delicate irony in the old saying _‘the third time is the charm_ ’). But the hand he reaches out to **slam** down over the snooze button is a _tad_ too violent, even for someone sleep-deprived and gasping for breath from yet another round of intrusive, endless _nightmares_. 

He doesn’t know why he sets the damn thing to go off, for he’s yet to get up on time even once, heralded into the stretch of another day proceeding a whirlwind of dreams so _vivid_ that he may as well be awake, aware and alert the _entire_ time, **experiencing** each unique terror all over again - only this time, there is no **veil** between him and sensation. There is no Archangel breaching the sharp, _crisp_ agonies of each experience. Michael is _gone_ \- dead - just like Adam’s memories of his mother, _fading_ into the corporeal to become the ghost of something that had once **mattered** so very, very much. 

Adam wonders how many _more_ vital parts of himself he can stand to _lose_ before he ceases to **be** a person anymore, but the world itself doesn’t seem to _care_. It goes on, just as life does, under the gaze of its new God. 

Adam is exhausted on a level he never knew existed before now. He wants _peace,_ he wants _Michael,_ he wants something - **anything** \- to make sense again, but mostly, he just wants to _sleep._ Uninterrupted ~~and endless~~ _._ Of course, that’s not the way life works. It’s not the way _anything_ works. People **rarely** get what they _want_ , and even **less** so, what they _deserve_. 

But more than any of that, he just wants to _remember;_ himself, his life, his _mum,_ Michael _,_ the person he **was** before he ever met the Winchesters, what the things he _used_ to care about even were. But it just keeps on _falling_ away, grains of sand endlessly slipping between his fingers. 

Deeply - and **not** without irony - he supposes the answer to it **all** is what he _makes_ of it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to _drag_ himself upright and out of bed every single day, it is _hard_ to go through the motions and play _pretend_ as he tries to cobble together some form of **sense** to a life he doesn’t ~~want~~ understand. It is hard to _grieve_ the loss of what once sat so neatly beside his soul, burning more **brightly** and more **comfortingly** than any open fire _ever_ could.

The world is renewed under the eyes of its _new_ , young God. But Adam wants **no** part of it. Everything he once had is _**dead**_ \- and really and truly, he just wishes that he’d been gifted the chance to stay that way, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always. Maybe one day I will be able to write something vaguely happy, but don't hold your breath lol. As ever, kudos and comments feed me, thank you!


End file.
